Hollyweird

by Terri Clark

  “Uh,” Des interrupted, giving Aly a “no offense” look. “Missy isn’t exactly Mother Teresa. She’s vain and self-serving.”

  “True,” I said. “But she wants to be discovered, to live here, to find her fame and fortune. Her newbie desperation makes feeding off her, destroying her, a lot easier. You two might be, er, yummier, but you’re more difficult because you don’t hunger for something so deeply you’d—”

  “Do anything to get it,” Des finished numbly.

  “Exactly,” I said.

  “Good thing she’s leaving when we do,” Des said with relief.

  “Not if he gives her what she wants,” I argued. “It all depends on Dakota’s whim. He’ll hook her, get her to stay. Then he could choose to take her to the stratosphere, make her world-famous, and then decimate her before the masses, or he could use her as a plaything, tossing her enough crumbs of hope to keep her starving for celebrity. He makes them and he breaks them. Hell-A is Dakota’s playground, and he’s one of Daddy’s favorites.”

  Neither one of them said anything. Crickets chirped. Traffic hummed. Then, “Sonofabitch!” Des yelled, pounding the car with her fists. “That’s why he was kissing me. That evil fiend wasn’t just sucking face, he was slurpin’ my innocence. No wonder I crashed so hard after I worked off my temper.”

  “Yeah, um … ” I rubbed the back of my neck in discomfort. “Intimate contact makes it easier for him to—”

  “Molest a person’s character,” Des finished, her face pinched like she’d chewed a handful of coffee beans.

  “This is insane,” Aly said, covering her face with her hands before announcing, “You two are certifiable.”

  “Aly.” I held my palms out in supplication. “I know you’re not one to believe, but please—”

  “No, no, no,” she said, waving away my plea. “Next thing you know you’ll be telling me vampires and werewolves exist too.” She gave a ragged laugh and I winced at her too-true words.

  Desi, who’d been watching me with microscopic intensity, pounced on my reaction.

  “Ha!” She pointed at my face. “I saw that.”

  I could’ve bluffed her out, but I kept silent. You can’t come clean and leave some dirt behind.

  “Oh my God,” she gasped. “They do exist, don’t they? If I were a ‘told you so’ person”—she gave Aly an elated grin as she bounced around on the balls of her feet—“I would so be telling you I told you so.”

  “Come ooooo-on,” Aly protested. “What have you two been smoking?”

  “Think about it, Al. If there’s such a thing as demons, it only makes sense there would be other creatures too.” Desi stalked over to me and poked me in the chest. “Right! Right?”

  Absently rubbing my chest, I made a concerted effort not to look at Aly as I answered, “Right.”

  “I knew it!” Desi crowed, pumping her fists. “Vamps, werewolves, witches?”

  “Yes.” Still not looking at Aly.

  “Ha! And I bet some of them are celebrities like Dakota, right?”

  I nodded. And still kept my gaze from Aly.

  “Who who who?”

  I had to look at Aly.

  Knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around herself, head down, Aly looked small and vulnerable on the hood of my car. My soul ached for her.

  “Aly?” I asked, fearing I’d forever destroyed a part of her innocence.

  Desi’s concerned gaze connected with mine. “Al?” she repeated.

  Aly’s shoulders started to shake and I heard small, snuffling sounds as if she’d started to weep.

  “Aly, don’t cry.” Feeling like a heartless bastard, I walked to her side and laid my hand on her shoulder. “I know it’s a bit of a shock—”

  The breathy sounds she’d been making got higher pitched, and …

  “Wait. Are you laughing?”

  She lifted her head. Tears streamed from her eyes and laughter burbled out of her, escalating to a point where she quit making any noises and struggled to breath.

  “You two”—she wiped her eyes—“you had me going.” More laughter and a deep gasp for breath. “I almost believed.” She shook her head and broke into a fresh stream of giggles. “Where’s, where’s—” She sucked in a slow breath and held it so she could regain some composure while Desi and I gave each other “did we miss something?” looks. “Where’s the cameras?” she finally managed to ask.

  “Cameras?” I asked, and heard leeriness in my voice.

  “Hoo, hoo.” She panted and fanned herself, trying to regain the rest of her composure. “Who? Who? Who?” she mocked, pointing at Desi. “Classic.”

  Aly stretched out her legs, took in another deep breath, and then blew it, along with her hysteria, away. “I’m all right now. Gracious,” she said with a spent smile. “You got me good.” Swiveling around, she looked down the street. “So, where are they? I can’t see anyone?”

  At some point during Aly’s mental snap, Des had walked to my side. “Do you know what she’s talking about?” I asked her.

  “Not a clue.”

  “The gag reel, sillies,” Aly said. “There’s one on the DVD for every season. I can’t believe Dakota decided to prank me, but I bet the fans will love seeing one of their own get it.”

  “Al, honey,” Des said in a tread-softly voice. “It would be a brilliant idea … if this were actually a prank.”

  Aly’s face sobered. “Enough already. Ha ha. I fell for it. Joke’s over.”

  “It’s not a joke,” I said quietly.

  Aly opened her mouth for another denial. Grabbing her legs, I swung her around to face me. Hands on her knees, I leaned close so she was looking directly into my eyes. “Absolute truth. Dakota. Is. The devil’s son.”

  “And vampires, witches, and werewolves are real,” Des added. “Like I told you.”

  Aly started trembling under my hands. “Prove it,” she finally whispered.

  Fishing my keys out of my pocket with one hand, I tugged her off the car with my other. “I thought you might say that. Let’s go. Whatever you do, don’t stare.”

  ALY

  “Are we in Chalmun’s Cantina?” I whispered to Jameson as a drool-worthy hunk, who could’ve stepped out of any Abercrombie ad except for the wolf’s tail wagging from the back of his jeans, walked by. There was a definite resemblance to the Star Wars bar, but instead of being populated by Bith, Aqualish, and Ithorians, this bar had Lycanthropes, Piskies, and Bean Shìth.

  “No.” Jameson chuckled. “This”—he pointed to a blue neon sign hanging on the wall—“is Get Your Freak On.”

  I gave him a “you’re not serious” look.

  Grinning, he said, “It’s apropos, don’t you think? They can be their true selves here.”

  “I’ll say,” Desi said, a bit breathless. “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

  Trapped somewhere between disbelief and the proof is in the (hullo, that girl has actual horns) putting, not pudding, I’d say Jameson had put more than enough proof before me. Still … “This really isn’t a movie set or some elaborate Hollywood joke?” I asked, giving one last shot at not having my world spun on its axis.

  Jameson gave me a sympathetic smile and squeezed my hand. “No and no. I know it’s a lot to take in, but you said you had to see to believe.”

  “And I do,” I said with a sigh, no longer able to deny the facts before me. Expecting Des to huzzah over my admission, I turned to find her oblivious to us, staring at everything—no, everyone—with wide-eyed wonder like a googly-eyed kid looking at an ocean of toys in New York’s FAO Schwarz. “Des, don’t stare,” I hissed, not caring to have any sort of confrontation should someone take offense.

  “I know it’s hard,” Jameson agreed, “but it’s rude, and here you’re the freak.”

  Des’s gaze jerked to him. “I am,” she said in awe, “aren’t I?”

  An amused Jameson led us to a quiet corner booth where we could be a little more surreptitious in our creature watching
. (And to think I’d enjoyed people-watching in airports!)

  As soon as we sat down, a buxom redhead with waist-length hair, creamy buttermilk skin, and sage eyes strutted over to our table in thigh-high pirate boots, skin-tight jeans, and a billowy black peasant top. Envious of how well she wore the look, I gave her an admiring smile. Her full burgundy lips parted in an answering smile and revealed two fangs. My insides jolted, but I tried to still any outward reaction.

  “What can I get you?” she asked, in as cheery a tone as any IHOP waitress.

  “Pepsi, please,” I answered, not daring to look at Desi.

  “What do you recommend?” My BFF asked all nonchalant, as if we were regulars at this—what would you call this place?—paranormal pub.

  “Depends on what you’re into, sugar.” The waitress pointed to Des’s tee. “We’ve definitely ‘got blood,’ plus beer and brain blends. All three are on tap.”

  I bit my tongue, hard, to curb my gag reflex.

  “Hmmm,” Des said, as if the choices were too many and too delectable for her to decide.

  “If you want to try something new,” Jameson said, “I recommend the sheemeala.”

  Des shrugged a shoulder. “Why not?”

  Shleigh—that’s what her nametag said—gave Jameson a saucy wink. “And for you, feather?”

  Jameson cleared his throat and shifted in his seat.

  “Coffee. Black, please. And two of your double-stack burgers.”

  “Feather?” I asked, once Shleigh had walked out of earshot.

  Des snickered. “Bet he’s a lightweight. Except when it comes to eating.”

  Looking down, Jameson traced the scars in the wood tabletop. “Something like that.”

  “So what’s sheemeala?” Des asked.

  Jameson lifted his head and I could swear the points of his ears had pinkened.

  “A honeyed drink,” he answered. “Similar to mead, but made by fairies.”

  “No way!” Des said, clearly delighted. “So it’s got a little extra somethin’ somethin’ in it?”

  Jameson smiled. “Only a little. It’s more about the rich taste.”

  As we waited for our order, I tried to memorize details since pictures were a no-no. Freaks, as it was affectionately called, had a futuristic-disco fusion look with its glass, LED-lit bar, cube seats, and dance floor. The walls had bubble lights of color that pulsed to the dance music and cast a glow on all the patrons. By itself, the bar rocked for its hip décor, but watching a witch and a werewolf get down to some Timberlake made it one-of-a-kind. A couple times I gave my thigh a hard pinch under the table just to make sure I hadn’t slipped into some trippy dreamworld.

  I ended up taking a sip of Des’s drink after she dubbed it “honey on crack.” She was right. If I’d thought Cristal tasted like starlight, this tasted like a sun-warmed field of wildflowers kissed by magic.

  “I can’t believe things like this”—I tapped Des’s glass—“and people like them”—I nodded toward the crowd—“have always existed without my knowing. Without most the world knowing.”

  “I told you—”

  Aiming a stink-eye at Des, I dared her to finish that sentence.

  She broke off, took a sip of her drink, and then said, “Even for me, it’s a shock. Believing and knowing are totally different. It makes me wonder how much unseen there really is.”

  “A lot,” Jameson said, cupping his warm mug with both hands. “Most people just don’t look deep enough.”

  “And it’s okay that we know about … this?” I waved my hands to indicate all of Freaks.

  “It’s not like they’re gonna kill us, Al,” Des said, then seemed to think twice and look to Jameson for confirmation. “Are they? Can they tell we’re human? We don’t look like the only ones here.”

  “Whoa,” Jameson said, holding up his hand. “No one is killing anyone. Most of the PNs recognize you as humans and, no, you’re not the only ones here.”

  “PNs?” I asked.

  “Preternaturals,” he said. “And yes, it’s okay you know. Lots of people do. Obviously it’s not global knowledge, but that’s because both sides prefer it that way. Most humans write off the supernatural because it scares them, so they rationalize it away.”

  “I certainly did,” I said, remembering all the excuses I’d made up for Dakota’s red eyes. For a split second I felt foolish, but then I realized there was no way in hell I could’ve imagined he was Satan’s son, let alone that there was an entire paranormal underworld.

  “Well, of course you didn’t believe your own eyes,” Jameson said as he swirled a fry in ketchup. “Who would?”

  “I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me when you saw that,” Des pouted.

  “I can. She had no reason to suspect all this.” Jameson defended me around a mouthful of burger. “Most PNs keep a tight rein on things to protect themselves from the zealots who’d come after them for being different.”

  Des nodded gravely. “If this became common knowledge, it would become an Us vs. Them world.”

  “Unfortunately that’s probably true,” Jameson said. “So we keep things on the DL and coexist with a little magic and smoke and mirrors.”

  “That’s right,” Des said. “You told us earlier that a lot of celebs are PNs.”

  “What better place for them?” he asked with a little shrug. “Hollywood is all about illusion and glamour.”

  “Tell us who. No!” Des swiped away her suggestion. “I want to guess. There’s just some people who’ve stood out, like that old guy who hosts the New Year’s Eve show with Seacrest. What’s his name?”

  “Dick Clark,” I said, remembering how my dad had been upset when the American Bandstand legend passed the baton to Ryan.

  “Yeah, yeah,” she said. “That dude never, ever seemed to age before his stroke. You can’t look that good for eons unless you’re a vampire, am I right?”

  “You’re right,” Jameson said. “But he didn’t have a stroke. He was attacked by a ghoul.”

  “Whoa!” Desi hooted before giving a new name. “Robin Williams.”

  Jameson snorted. “Do you need to ask? Have you seen how hairy that dude is? Forget a five o’clock shadow. He’s got a three, six, nine, and twelve o’clock shadow. If he didn’t shave round the clock the whole world would know he’s a were.”

  Laughing, I couldn’t help but get caught up in the game. “Okay, okay. You cannot tell me Joan Rivers is normal, and I don’t buy that all of this”—I waved my fingers around my face—“is due to plastic surgery.”

  “No,” Jameson said with a smirk. “She’s a hag in more ways than one.”

  “Oh!” Des gasped. “What about Lindsay Lohan? There’s something hinky there. PN or human?”

  “PN,” Jameson said. “But a hard one to guess.”

  “Tell!” I demanded, feeling like Perez Hilton must when he gets delish dish.

  Jameson smiled at my impatience. “She’s a succubus,” he said, then paused over Des’s second gasp. “A soul-sucking demon,” he explained for my neophyte benefit, “who depletes anyone she’s in a sexual relationship with so she can remain beautiful. When her partner is a husk of their former self, she finds new prey.”

  “Shazam,” Des muttered. “That’s just harsh.”

  “There are worse,” Jameson groused. “Don’t even get me started on that stupid siren, Paris Hilton.”

  “What about Brit?” I asked. “She’s been all over the map, psyche-wise and stardom-wise.”

  “Yeah.” Jameson’s mood took a noticeable nosedive at my question and he rubbed his chin, a cue I’d learned meant he felt uncomfortable. “She’s not a PN.” His grave gaze moved between Des and I. “And she was before my time.”

  “You mean … ” My scalp prickled with dreaded understanding.

  “Dakota considers Britney Spears one of his greatest successes.”

  “Damn,” Desi whispered softly. “That’s just sad.”

  “He did that to her?” I asked unn
ecessarily, horror razoring my tone. “He took her from a sweet Mousketeer to a scandal-riddled, troubled mom?”

  “Afraid so,” he answered, shaking his head. “But I think she’s working hard to turn herself around. Maybe if I’d been here—”

  Light-bulb moment! “That’s why you work for someone you despise,” I said. “You’re trying to stop him, aren’t you?”

  “As much as I can, but—”

  “Al?” Desi said, and something about her tone made me snap my gaze away from Jameson. She had a funny look on her face, somewhere between suspicion and epiphany. Her eyes were locked on Jameson and he obviously saw something in her face, too, because he licked his lips and rocked his jaw back and forth as if waiting for a blow.

  What had I missed?

  “Des?”

  “There’s one question we haven’t asked,” Desi said, never breaking her stare down.

  Was she kidding? It seemed more like a trillion, quadrillion questions hadn’t been asked. She wanted me to figure out just one.

  “And that would be?” I prompted.

  She slid me a brief look out of the corner of her eyes before turning her magnifying glass back on Jameson.

  “Who,” she asked him in a firm but not accusatory tone, “or what, are you?”

  Jameson

  I’d expected that question, but it still punched me in the solar plexus.

  “Well?” Des asked. “PN or human?”

  “Er,” I hedged. “Both.”

  Des and Aly looked at each other in confusion while I threw a fifty on the table. How could I answer their question when it went against the code? “Come on,” I said, mourning the half-eaten burger I left behind as we headed for the exit.

  Outside, we walked a half a block down La Brea Avenue before I stopped in front of a tattoo shop called Ink It Over to speak to the girls. “I’d like to tell you, but—”